Failure
by tastewithouttalent
Summary: "Ishigaki doesn't look up until he's inside, has taken a step in and let the flap fall behind him before he takes in the hunch of Midosuji's skeletal shoulders, the gloves wrapping his fingers and the mask closing off his mouth, and then it's too late to pretend he was going elsewhere." Ishigaki intends to thank Midosuji and does more than he planned.
1. Distant

Ishigaki blames post-race exhaustion.

He intended to offer thanks to Midosuji, possibly a careful extension of sympathy if he can figure out a way to present that in a way that the other will accept. He can still feel the tension at the back of his jersey, the grab that saved him from the road-burn pain of a proper crash, the rush of shocked affection in his veins to counter the blank distance in Midosuji's dark eyes. He's been warmed by that all day, even when he heard the results from the finish line, even when the third place on the winner's podium was empty, even when the chill of concern started to form into the certainty of worry. But his unformed fear for Midosuji's mental state is just that, vague and soft at the edges, and when he pushes the tent flap aside and steps in he's thinking of his own selfish pleasure at being saved, thinking to offer thanks with enough sincerity that even Midosuji will understand him. He doesn't look up until he's inside, has taken a step in and let the flap fall behind him before he takes in the hunch of Midosuji's skeletal shoulders, the gloves wrapping his fingers and the mask closing off his mouth, and then it's too late to pretend he was going elsewhere.

For a minute he's stalled, frozen as he takes in the visual, the fact that Midosuji hasn't looked at him, all the tiny tells that coalesce to tell him something is very, _very_ wrong, that Midosuji is doing worse than Ishigaki has ever seen him. The first burst of adrenaline tells him to avoid this scenario, to turn and leave, that Midosuji won't stop him and won't care about the awkward situation. But the remembered pressure on the back of his jersey says that Midosuji _will_ care, even if he never says anything, that just because he won't feel the social awkwardness doesn't mean he won't be hurt by the abandonment.

Ishigaki takes a step forward. "Midosuji-kun?"

There's no response. The other doesn't shift his shoulders, doesn't lift his head. He might as well be deaf, doesn't react even when Ishigaki comes close enough to touch him and drops to a knee. This close he can see the tiny motion of the mask over Midosuji's mouth, the flutter of the cover as he breathes. It's easier to watch that than the endless darkness in the other's eyes, the out-of-focus shadows as if sight itself is too much of an effort.

"Midosuji-kun." Instinct brings Ishigaki's fingers up, reaching for Midosuji's wrist before he thinks. The other's skin is chill under his fingertips, absent even the spark of a flinch away that would normally be there, and Midosuji keeps moving, idly tugging at the tassel on a pillow without so much as turning his head. "Look at me."

Midosuji doesn't speak, doesn't blink, just slowly turns his head to fix the emptiness behind his eyes ostensibly on Ishigaki's face. His fingers are still moving, continuing their rhythmic tugging without the assistance of his gaze, but he's not pulling away from Ishigaki's hold. It's not really a positive - Ishigaki can tell the difference between active assent and indifference - but Midosuji's skin is getting a little warmer, even if it's just borrowed from the other's touch, so Ishigaki doesn't let go.

He wants to ask if Midosuji is okay. Concern is foremost in his mind, concern and spreading fear at the lack of response. Midosuji is perfect still except for the mechanical drag of his gloved fingertips over the tassel, his eyes utterly blank. Ishigaki wouldn't believe he's alive if not for the shift of the mask, proof of his breathing even if he can't see his lips.

"Thank you," he finally says past lips gone stiff with cold panic. His voice swings high, skidding towards a break, and he has to pause and wet his lips, swallow the knot from his throat before he speaks again. "Midosuji-kun. For saving me."

There's no response. No blink, no insult, no rejection in word or gaze or motion. Ishigaki can feel his eyes going hot with tears and that's making it worse, because Midosuji _ought_ to be recoiling from his emotion, hissing and jerking away and shoving Ishigaki back with the revulsion he usually shows. But he's not, there's just the darkness in his eyes like he's staring inward, like all his vicious rejection is twisting in around on himself. Ishigaki doesn't know how to warm away the blank cold in Midosuji's expression, isn't sure what to _do_ with a Midosuji that looks so utterly lost, because he might be the captain in name but in practice it has been so _easy_ to follow the new genius. Ishigaki has known something is broken in Midosuji - he didn't have to be a genius himself to see that much - but he has never seen the edges of it before, hasn't seen the glass-sharp shards under the doll-like stillness of Midosuji's face.

"Midosuji," he says again, deliberately dropping the honorific just to see if that will strike the sparks he wants. Desperation is coiling under his skin, words falling flat before he can frame them, all his hypothetical sincerity collapsing under the unreceptive stillness in Midosuji's face. There's just that rhythmic motion of fingers, the catch of breathing even Midosuji can't do without. Ishigaki's gaze slides away from the uncomfortable inhumanity of the other's eyes to land on the mask, even if the warmth of the other's breathing is being held away by the fabric itself.

He isn't sure why exactly he moves. His head is ringing, his thoughts pulling away from the present discomfort of his body in self-defense, as if to keep him safe by distancing himself from the cold sweat of panic on his skin and the thudding anxiety of his heart. It's almost like he's watching himself lean in, more curious than afraid by the time his lips touch against thin fabric to fit the mask flat between Midosuji's mouth and his own.

He can feel the catch of an inhale stalled by the space of his own mouth, Midosuji's lips surprisingly soft even through the strange texture between them. Ishigaki shuts his eyes without thinking, his focus drawing in so close around his mouth that his hold on Midosuji's wrist goes slack with inattention. They stay like that for a moment, Ishigaki's mouth going faintly warm with what of Midosuji's breath is making it to his skin, but Midosuji doesn't move at all, just keeps trying to breathe through his mouth until Ishigaki finally pulls away. He's starting to flush with self-consciousness, his cheeks borrowing all the heat Midosuji's skin lacks, but Midosuji just looks away, drops his chin so his eyes are once again not-focused on the threads under his fingers. Ishigaki lets his hold go, then, shuffles back over the floor until he's out of range of physical contact. He can tell when he's failed without being told.

He doesn't leave, though, and Midosuji doesn't tell him to. It's not a victory any more than being ignored ever is. But Ishigaki is good at sacrificing his pride for the sake of his school, for the sake of his team. Sacrificing it for Midosuji himself makes more sense than anything else he's done recently.


	2. Closer

By the time Ishigaki comes to, it's all over.

They tell him right after he's come back to consciousness, when everything is hazy enough that it doesn't hit with the full force it should. The knowledge of their loss - of Midosuji's loss - sinks in well before his awareness comes back, until by the time he is fully himself again the information has become as much a part of him as the blood in his veins. He doesn't have a chance to mourn, isn't sure he has the right to anyway, not when he was lying delirious and overheated when the actual events happened.

He doesn't see Midosuji afterwards. He isn't even completely certain on what happened to the other boy; it's enough to know they failed, that one piece of information enough to speak for the level of catastrophe that must have struck the ace that had always seemed so unstoppable. And Ishigaki has nothing left to offer, anymore, no comfort and no reassurance and no support. What good is assistance when there is no race to be won?

In the end he's left alone for nearly two days. The first he spends asleep, waking only to gulp glasses of water and force himself to eat another meal before he collapses back into bed to recover. Sunday is better, at least as far as staying awake goes, until by the time the sun is sinking the world into the dim light of night Ishigaki feels nearly human again.

He's thinking about eating, thinking about starting a new book or taking advantage of the time to study, something to distract him from the weight of exhaustion that feels like failure in his body, when there's a knock at the door. The sound is so loud and sharp he jumps, his heart pounding into overdrive before he can process the meaning of the noise. He's trembling when he gets to his feet, shaky with the surge of unnecessary adrenaline, and he's still trying to even his breathing and offer a polite smile when he pulls the door open.

Then he sees who is on the other side, and his politeness goes still and silent under the crushing weight of panic.

"Midosuji-kun." He sounds breathless, shakier even than he did the last time they spoke, when his vision was blurring from exhaustion and he couldn't control the blissful smile across his face at the prospect of a victory that seemed inevitable, then.

The other boy turns his head from where he was staring down the street, fixes his gaze on Ishigaki as if he's contemplating the purpose of the other's existence. The flat darkness of his eyes makes Ishigaki feel like an object, precisely as important and perhaps less useful than the door his hand is still resting on.

Ishigaki wants to apologize. He wants to hold out sympathy, to spill apologies from his lips like rain, to drop to his knees and offer all the weight of failure in his chest like Midosuji will be able to absolve him of his lingering sense of guilt, will tell him he did well or condemn him for doing poorly. But the feeling is too strong, overlarge and sticking in his throat, and it's not fair to drop such a weight for Midosuji to bear for the both of them.

He ducks his head instead. Staring at Midosuji's knees it's a little easier to breathe, a little easier to shut his eyes against the ache behind them, all the force of the tears he hasn't cried pushing against him now like an unstoppable flood. Midosuji doesn't say anything, even when fat droplets splash against the warm of the sidewalk between them, even when Ishigaki's throat finally relaxes enough to let him choke out inhales that sound embarrassingly and unavoidably like sobs.

Ishigaki doesn't know why Midosuji stays. It's minutes before he can take a breath without choking on the sound, another gap of time before he's stopped crying enough to make wiping his face anything but futile. His eyes are heavy, he can feel the ache of red swelling along his lids and painful when he blinks, and when he looks back up he's expecting the usual disgust, a hissed "Gross" or just Midosuji physically recoiling.

He's not. He doesn't appear to have moved at all since Ishigaki opened the door. His hands are still hanging heavy at his sides, his eyes still wide and staring at the other boy, until Ishigaki has the insane thought that maybe Midosuji hasn't so much as blinked while they're been standing there.

Ishigaki can feel the silence stretching heavy, absent now even the sound of his tears to partition it into seconds. The strain pulls harder with the salt of his tears dried against his cheeks, the embarrassment at his loss of composure chilling his blood cold with self-consciousness. But Midosuji still isn't speaking, is still just staring like he's waiting for Ishigaki to become transparent to his gaze, and Ishigaki's throat won't work on sound even if he knew what to say.

"Ishigaki-kun," Midosuji says then, all at once, his voice as hissingly ordinary as if he's responding to Ishigaki's greeting of minutes before, as if the intervening time has just not occurred at all. Ishigaki has a flush of relief, gratitude that at least one of them is talking, even as his stomach plummets in terrified anticipation of what it is the other might actually _say_.

Midosuji blinks, as slowly as if he has to think through the motion, his eyes dragging over Ishigaki's face as his head tips slightly to the side. "Ishigaki," he says again, the repetition distraction enough that it takes Ishigaki the span of a breath to realize the oddity of hearing only his last name in the strange sibilance of Midosuji's voice. He takes a breath, the impulse of social norms suggesting some kind of meaningless response, and Midosuji is suddenly right in front of him, his face so entirely dominating Ishigaki's view it is hard to realize it's a shift in perspective, that the other has just leaned into Ishigaki's personal space.

Then the impact comes, dry friction at Ishigaki's mouth, and everything Ishigaki was trying to process falls out of his mental grasp. His hand slips off the door, falls limp at his side to match Midosuji's, and that's when he realizes that Midosuji is kissing him.

He's doing it all wrong. His lips are dry, perfectly still like he's just pressing them to Ishigaki's, outlining an approximation of kissing without understanding the basic premise, and he's breathing through his mouth instead of his nose, the air gusting against Ishigaki's half-opened mouth with every inhale. But Ishigaki's stomach is in free-fall, his heart is pounding in his chest, and when he manages to reach up his hand is shaking so badly the touch at Midosuji's shoulder is more to steady himself than to guide the other sideways and ease him into a better angle.

"Like this," Ishigaki says, faint and shaking. His mouth is catching at Midosuji's with every word, his lips dragging over the other boy's with each syllable. "Tip your head - there, and breathe through your nose."

Midosuji makes a noise, a faint hiss of discomfort in the back of his throat, and for a moment Ishigaki thinks he's going to resist, is going to pull away and retreat and Ishigaki will never have him so close again. But then he exhales hard all at once, mutters "Gross" under his breath, and when Ishigaki leans in Midosuji holds still to let the other carefully fit their mouths together in a kiss far softer than the first attempt.

It doesn't take away the weight of their failure. Ishigaki's thoughts are still freighted with unspoken sympathy, his chest still aching from the loss. But this is a victory in itself, no matter how small it may be, and when Ishigaki closes his eyes, the darkness soothes the lingering burn of his tears.


End file.
